


A Different Paris

by What_Are_Books



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables (Movie 1978), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Les Misérables: In Concert (1995), Les Misérables: In Concert (2010)
Genre: Black Character, Gen, Romani Javert, alternate versions meeting, crossover?, lightly researched with a hint of conjecture, no slurs, probably inaccurate depictions of voice-throwing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-28 09:12:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15045734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/What_Are_Books/pseuds/What_Are_Books
Summary: Five versions of Inspector Javert end up in the same room.





	A Different Paris

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was at least partly inspired by this: http://irenydraws.tumblr.com/post/40017501626/run-javerts-run-this-is-part-of-my-les-mis  
> I just.. added more javerts
> 
> Edit: I just fixed up some grammar errors I noticed upon re-reading. It's otherwise unchanged

It was difficult to believe that they could all be the same man.

The first was pale, dark-haired but greying, with tame grey sideburns. His eyebrows were thick, with a scar curving through the right and a furrow between them. He had noticeable lines running from nose to cheek and a cleft chin, and was decked in a tightly-buttoned black coat and top hat.

The second was quite tanned, with pale blue eyes, round cheeks, deep smile lines, though his smile was rare and fleeting; and he had long, neat hair in a ponytail and fluffy mutton chops, both brown with a reddish tinge. He wore a blue double-breasted uniform under a massive opened coat, and a large top hat.

The third was brown-skinned, broad-shouldered, with large lips and a broad-tipped nose on a heart-shaped face. He had short coiled hair with greying temples. He was clean-shaven, and clad in a very similar blue uniform and loose black coat. He was hatless. He and the second could have belonged to the same squad.

The last was again pale, and curiously soft in body and sombre in bearing, slightly shorter than the others, with grey hair cut in the Caesar style, a circle beard, and dark blue eyes with droopy corners. He was uniformed more in the style of the military than as an inspector, complete with bicorn hat and epaulettes on his shoulders.

The one with the ponytail pointed his cudgel. “Listen,” he commanded in a voice that was clear and powerful, “I am the Javert of this world, and I want you all gone.”

“Nonsense, since I am Inspector Javert,” said the one in black with an easy assurance. His arms were crossed.

They began to argue, each believing that he was the true Javert who had come to investigate a hovel, only to meet three others who believed the same.

The broad-shouldered one was growing increasingly annoyed. His being exuded a cool contempt at the best of times, and his temper was explosive when provoked. He held his cudgel in a relaxed manner.

The shorter one was quieter, but no less frustrated. He carried a rapier at his hip. He itched to pace the room in agitation, and to remove himself from the argument, but he stayed on his guard.

The one with the ponytail had tucked the cudgel back under his arm and stepped forward to threaten the dark-haired one. The broad-shouldered one dragged him away when it looked like he might attack him, and his large hat fell off in the struggle. The dark-haired one had not raised his cane.

“That’s enough!” the broad-shouldered one yelled to the room at large.

“It’s good to see you can maintain order among yourselves.” said a voice at the door. They all looked.

The newcomer was dressed in an overcoat with three capes and a flat hat. He had neat grey hair, with some falling over his forehead, a square face, ferocious greying whiskers, and an unsettling stare. He had a pair of handcuffs out, but when he looked around and saw the uniforms, he frowned and put them back, muttering about a bad tip.

“Who are you?” asked the bearded one.

“I am Inspector Javert of the First Class,” he replied. The entire room groaned and cursed.

“Hah! So are we,” the broad-shouldered one informed him, who was still gripping the shoulders of the ponytailed one. Ponytail pulled away, and snatched his hat from the floor.

The newcomer was impassive. “If you are all me,” he began, “then what are the best ways to apprehend criminals?”

“To observe,” answered the one in black.

“Resources,” said the bearded one.

At this Ferocious Whiskers laughed. His laugh was silent, and the way his face contorted had something unsettling in it. “You lot are very lucky! My préfecture does not even pay its inspectors a decent wage.” This was said without venom. This man was not capable of criticising a superior authority. There had been, of course, one time, when he had broken this tenet of his code. And that had been right, in the end. He had not thought about that for some time.

“Why do you ask?” enquired Ponytail, “do you have one you can’t catch?”

Several heads turned towards him. It was admission enough.

“So,” speculated the dark-haired one, “we all have a Jean Valjean.”

By now the newcomer had moved into the room. “I arrested Jean Valjean already. He was sent back to Toulon. The newspaper reported that he fell into the sea and drowned eight years ago.”

That stopped the others short. Dark Hair looked somewhat amused, Ponytail a little haunted, Shoulders was scowling, and the one with a beard was contemplating something.

“I don’t believe it.” He added.

“Of course,” said Dark Hair, “that is how he escaped from prison. I witnessed it myself.”

“Valjean also escaped me that way. He jumped out a window, into the water.” The bearded one recalled. “That was after we fought in the hospital. I caught up to him in Paris, but he escaped over a wall.”

The dark-haired one and the wildly whiskered one remembered tracking Jean Valjean in Paris after losing him in Montreuil-sur-Mer, under different circumstances. The first after he escaped from the coach after the arrest and the other after the convict’s apparent death in prison. Dark Hair had convinced himself that his Valjean was dead, while Whiskers had only briefly believed so. The other two recognised the part about the confrontation in the hospital, but neither of them had found the convict after that. Or, they thought, had the gall to lose him over a wall.

“That is—” Shoulders chuckled, “you found him, only to lose him again.”

“I think we are all guilty of that.” the bearded one assured. There was a silence.

“I tire of staring myself in the face,” said Whiskers abruptly, “I will take leave of you now.”

Ponytail eyed him. “Wait. If you go out there, are you certain that you will end up in the right place?” The others looked disconcerted suddenly. “Who knows how our worlds differ?”

“What do you suggest? We cannot stay here.” demanded Dark Hair.

“We will go out together, and investigate,” Ponytail answered. He was met with sceptical expressions. “What? I don’t like your company any more than you enjoy mine, but it is better than each of us getting lost in unfamiliar worlds.”

They conceded his point silently, giving reluctant nods and offering no protests. Whiskers went out first, and the others filed behind him. The bearded one was last, and cast a glance around the site of this strange meeting as he went.

* * *

“… What is Jean Valjean like for each of you?” It was the Javert with the ferocious grey whiskers who had spoken.

“Infuriating.” Dark Hair answered. “Maddening.” He amended. His lip curled up on the left as he said it, and stayed like that at rest.

The others seemed to share this consensus.

“He is an attention-seeker.” Shoulders revealed. Javert (Ferocious Whiskers) raised an eyebrow, as if to say, _he is anything but that_. Grey Beard looked equally confused. Dark Hair scoffed quietly.

“Valjean is deceptively dangerous. He seems like a nice old man, but in reality, he could snap me, or any of us, in half.” Ponytail emphasised. He had hung up his enormous black coat and placed his hat on the table, and was in his blue uniform. His expression was serious, wariness imparted from his pale eyes.

“He pretends to be a changed man,” began the bearded one, who had also removed his hat, “but I remember him well from Toulon. 24601 was a beast.” This reasoning made perfect sense to these men. Each lived his life by the assumption that men could not truly change. It was perhaps the most important similarity between them.

At the number, Javert’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t heard it in a long time. He wasn’t in the habit of calling the former convict that. His Valjean had been assigned a new number, anyway.

“Did he ever threaten to kill you?” Dark Hair asked. The others regarded him curiously. “I put him in solitary for that,” he remarked.

“He threatened me with an iron bar, over the deathbed of that… woman of the town.” Javert admitted. His fingers absently stressed the sleeve of his coat as he thought.

“I vaguely remember such a threat, though we were shouting at each other at the time. It was not my proudest moment.” Shoulders said stiffly.

Grey Beard was the only one who didn’t possess such a memory, as his Valjean had never directly threatened his life.

“Above all, the most infuriating thing about him is his penchant for escape. He seems to have learned the art of it in the years since his initial sentence.” Javert declared quietly, speaking to himself. He wondered if he would ever be free of Jean Valjean. There were two options; Javert would finally recapture Valjean and throw him in prison, or Valjean would get the upper hand and manage to kill him in revenge for his relentless pursuit of him. He did not consider another option. There were none.

He looked up. Ponytail was scanning the bar they were gathered in, glancing back at the other versions of himself now and then, and then turning his attention back around the space. The other patrons didn’t pay them much heed after their entry. It wasn’t unusual to see a group of policemen gathered together. He likely realised that the uniform that he and Shoulders wore was unusual here. Javert was now fairly sure that this was his world, and in the police that he belonged to, inspectors wore civilian clothes even while on duty. He didn’t know why they wore uniforms and he and Dark Hair didn’t (and wore similar outfits at that, the main difference being that the other was clad in black) and why Grey Beard seemed to belong to the military according to his clothing but also held the title of ‘Inspector’.

Additionally, Javert was tall, but the other versions of himself towered over most people they passed. Even Grey Beard, who was a little shorter than the others, if still close to six feet high. This made Javert the smallest one of the group, and he did not like this state of things.

The versions of himself clearly came from various heritages. There were few physical similarities which they shared. Most of the others were at least a decade younger than he. It could be seen that Dark Hair had once been a striking young man, and at times his expression would become just so as to echo of this former appeal. Shoulders was downright handsome, and his dark skin, broad nose and lips, and frizzy hair texture indicated African ancestry. Even Grey Beard and Ponytail had a certain charm to their faces which age could not completely erase.

He, however, had nothing appealing about him. He had seen his face in the mirror. His features were rough, the nose pointed up while his mouth was a thin line, giving his face a strange amalgamation of a childlike quality and the unmistakable wear of an old man. He was sure he had inherited this from his criminal father. His mother had been Romani, giving his skin a brownish hue and ensuring his dark hair and eyes. His integrity had been questioned on this basis throughout his life, and it meant that he’d had to work twice as hard to convince his superiors of his loyalty. Perhaps Shoulders understood this as well.

Shoulders had received a few stares as they’d walked down the street, which he didn’t appear to notice. Javert himself sometimes got such reactions or worse, but his fellow officers were usually nonchalant about his appearance and heritage when they met him. He had made sure that his reputation extended beyond it, and he had lived among French society since he was a child, he was literate, and his job served the state. They left him alone, and only seemed to care about how he did his job.

Inspector Javert would not neglect his duties for anything, and he would perform them with the utmost fastidiousness, righteousness, and honour. Not even a bizarre event involving one’s counterparts from other worlds would keep him away from them.

He had his patrol in an hour. 

* * *

Night was falling, and five men were on the hunt.

The two in blue uniforms were the same height, and had fallen in line together, matching uniforms and similar histories priming them for partnership. Their black coats swirled around them as they marched ahead. They were clearly restless, clutching their cudgels and exchanging low intermittent conversations.

The one with the dark greying hair moved at a much more leisurely pace, using his cane not as a weapon as the aggressively whiskered one did, but as an accessory like that of the bourgeois. It tapped the cobblestones lightly as he walked behind the group, suspicious eyes darting around and downturned mouth perpetually in place.

That left Whiskers and the one with the grey beard, who walked nearer to one another, but not as a unit. They did not speak, absorbed in their own thoughts.

Whiskers had encountered the Gorbeau tenement in his work a few months ago. He had arrested the Patron-Minette, no thanks to that dolt of a lawyer whose name now escaped him, but the blackmail victim had escaped, very likely a criminal himself, and Claquesous had disappeared from the coach on the way to La Force.

Claquesous’ real identity was unknown to the police, and he always wore a mask while he was active, preventing a physical description from being ascertained. He had effectively melted back into the shadows from which he seemed to spring from each time. Jondrette’s daughter Éponine had been captured, but Montparnasse had avoided the initial arrest and there had been no sign of him since. These aspects of the incident were distasteful to this Javert, who liked to bring down the law onto everyone who deserved it, and the failure to do so chafed at the perfectionist streak which pertained to his work.

The sector of Paris that he wished to go to was notorious for criminal activity. The lower areas of the city were being ravaged by an ongoing epidemic of cholera, and the police had been detecting signs of political unrest for months. His focus tonight, however, was to search for some trace of the night at Gorbeau manor, perhaps to find a lead on the identity of Jondrette’s victim (who had possessed a fake sou used to cut the ropes—the tool of a convict) or of the whereabouts of the remaining gang members. Whiskers did not worry about his counterparts. He reasoned that if they were anything like him, they would surely be able to handle this task.

The others noticed the seediness of the area immediately, the two in front slowing their steps and the one behind catching up with the group. The street had several suspicious shops and dilapidated buildings. There were groups of men in working-clothes and a few women in simple chemises and skirts, and the inspectors stood out starkly on arrival. Several members of the crowd gave the uniformed men of towering stature openly suspicious or disdainful looks. Several took stock of them, preparing to disappear if the situation deteriorated.

On the corner was the bar in which gang members were known to meet. Whiskers had spent nights spying in there, and one time had nearly been caught when he couldn’t think of a false name. He was unconcerned about that tonight, as any hope he had at stealth was undermined by his counterparts following him around. He went to the door, and, thinking of them, looked behind him. The others were studying the bar and its surroundings. He addressed them, “I am going in here for information on a criminal’s whereabouts. Follow me if you like, I don’t much care.” He pushed through the door, trusting them not to interfere.

The dreadful place had a few patrons, but his instinct led him to a man seated in the middle of the room. He had looked up as Whiskers entered, and his gaze slid away after a few seconds, enough time to potentially recognise the inspector. Whiskers heard the door open and felt the presence of a taller man behind him. One of his counterparts. The man, seeing that he was hunted, stood up hastily. Whiskers heard shoes on the floor behind him and could tell that the others were coming into the room. The man seemed more alarmed, perhaps thinking that the Inspector had brought a squad of giants along with him to collect him, and he pushed his chair out and darted towards the back. They pursued.

The man went through the kitchen, which was as dully lit as the front, and Whiskers caught glimpses of Grey Beard, Ponytail, and Shoulders at his sides. On the other side of the kitchen was the hallway to the back exit, and the man rushed down it, followed by the banging of policemen’s boots. There was a door at the end of the hallway, it swung open for the man and he did not have the time or thought to block it from his pursuers. He slipped outside and was followed, continuing the chase through the back alley.

At one juncture the group was separated, and Grey Beard followed Whiskers while Shoulders and Ponytail went awry. A snippet was heard of Ponytail swearing thunderously and a frustrated bang. There wasn’t time to show proper disdain for this unprofessional behaviour.

They heard a shout just ahead of them, from the street. They looked ahead to no trace of the man. The voice sounded again, there was nobody there. “What is--?” began Grey Beard,

“He’s a ventriloquist.” Whiskers warned him. Grey Beard nodded. There was a moving shadow a few blocks away. Whiskers tapped his arm, leading him back a few paces. They met Shoulders and Ponytail, who came out of the other alley at last, and quickly explained the situation.

They tracked the man a few streets over, finally seeing him climb into the window of an abandoned building. They rammed down the door, Shoulders providing the last burst of strength, and the group filed up the stairs. Whiskers turned the doorknob. Inside was Dark Hair, standing over the form of the man, who was crumpled on the floor. He looked up and smirked.

Grey Beard exhaled loudly while Whiskers crossed his arms. They were all panting and coated with a sheen of sweat. Ponytail’s bow was loose and his hair a little frizzed due to humidity. Shoulders leaned against the door, feeling a twinge in his arm.

“Well?” Dark Hair demanded. “What is the source of this fuss? Who is he?” he nudged the man with his cane.

“He is known as Claquesous.” Whiskers explained. Ponytail and Grey Beard’s faces flickered as they recognised the name, the others remained blank. “He is a murderer who wears a mask, though we have caught him without it, and a member of the Patron-Minette gang who I arrested a few months ago.” Grey Beard went to handcuff him, Whiskers stopped him. “We must tie him up. He escaped last time on the way to the jail.”

They found some rope and tied him (Grey Beard was the best at knots), and the man regained consciousness to find five inspectors glaring at him. Claquesous was average height for his world, so it followed that he was absolutely dwarfed by Whisker’s counterparts. In his disorientation, he seemed to understand the sight in front of him as a vision from a dream. He said nothing.

“I’m not going to ask you to speak, since you are a scoundrel and possess the talent of ventriloquism.” Whiskers told him. Though, he concluded, the man might be quiet anyway, as his behaviour was quite concussed. Whiskers’ counterparts had gathered behind him, and he felt a glint of satisfaction at the fearsome sight they must make to a trapped criminal.

Claquesous was dazed, not hinting that he noticed them. “How hard did you hit him?” Ponytail asked Dark Hair in an undertone, who huffed.

“You don’t seem afraid of getting your hands dirty.” He replied, gesturing to Ponytail’s gloveless hands. Shoulders and Grey Beard surreptitiously examined their own gloves.

Ponytail’s expression was perplexed. He muttered something, clutching his cudgel absently.

Whiskers was watching this disinterestedly. “Come on,” he said, “we must get Claquesous to the station.” He turned, and froze, aghast. The ropes were empty. 

* * *

Javert circled the streets with his doubles, infuriated with them—and himself, for losing Claquesous. The rogue must have worked open the knots, as the ropes were not cut, and slipped out the window as his captors were distracted. How five men could have missed this, he didn’t know. It was eerily similar to the incident months before with Jondrette’s victim, and most disappointing was his own ability to fall for the same trick twice.

Claquesous seemed innocuous without his mask, and in a room with giants, who were other versions of himself (act like it he may, he was not unaffected by this fact) Javert had let the man’s plainness lull him into almost believing him harmless. But the man was a trickster, and he had likely feigned the effects of concussion while his head actually remained clear.

The préfecture had to know about this failure. But if he told them the whole story, his counterparts included, there was no denying that they would think him raving mad. Javert was not one to lie outright, but the subterfuge of his job required that he kept his silence on certain manners, and that was what he was to do here. It really was most reasonable to forget that this night ever happened.

Just then, Dark Hair lingered on something across the street. The others were curious about how he had gotten so far ahead, not to mention how he’d known where Claquesous would turn up, but he had refused to tell. He was clearly irritated at the loss of their quarry, and walked behind the group as before, but kept in stride. He crossed the road without a word to the others. They reluctantly followed him.

“What is it?” asked Shoulders.

“I recognise this alleyway.” Dark Hair was studying it still.

Javert scrutinised the alley as well. They could see another street at the end, very busy despite the time. He knew the city very well, and this alley was a cul-de-sac. It was not supposed to lead to a street. This explained why the others had followed him around all night; each of them came from a Paris that was different to his.

“… I know that street as well.” Dark Hair continued, seeming relieved at this familiarity. He turned back to the group. “I suppose I should go.” The other four made motions of agreement. Dark Hair turned on his heel and strode down the alley without another word. They watched him reach the street at the other end of the alley, and disappear around the corner. When they had moved on, the alley was a dead-end once more.

The next ingress they found was a park. Ponytail’s steps sped up, and he stopped outside the gate abruptly. His counterparts waited behind him. “I know this place.” He declared. He gave the others a nod, tucked his cudgel under his arm in a smooth motion, and walked down the gardens’ path without turning back. Once he was out of sight, the garden shimmered back into familiarity before their eyes. Fazed, the three men drifted away and down the street.

It came Shoulders’ turn when they reached a public square, and his face brightened slightly. The people in the square were of varying heights, but were generally taller than the people in the rest of Paris. They belonged to his world. Shoulders spared the remaining two a polite glance before stalking into the space. No-one gave him a second look. He breathed. Javert and Grey Beard turned back the way they’d come, and the square behind them returned to its usual state.

The last two continued on for some time, saying nothing and gradually growing agitated. Finally they passed a chapel which earned Grey Beard’s recognition. Javert looked on sceptically, as he rarely entered holy places, but the other man’s relief was somewhat assuring. Grey Beard regarded him in a way that seemed melancholy (but maybe that was simply his tired eyes), unlatched the gate, and entered the chapel grounds. He pushed open the heavy door and was swallowed by the dim interior.

Javert didn’t linger long, and promptly moved back towards the station to end his patrol. This one had lasted far too long, it was rare for him to feel so, but dealing with alternate versions of himself was singularly exhausting. He couldn’t determine what it was that he disliked about seeing himself reflected in so many ways, and in seeing the ways that he, Inspector Javert, could be known by others. This experience might spur self-reflection if he wasn’t careful.

**Author's Note:**

> In case it's not clear:  
> Whiskers/Javert = book Javert  
> Dark Hair = Perkins  
> Ponytail = Quast  
> Shoulders = Lewis  
> Grey Beard = Crowe
> 
> Hi everyone! This is my first fic in this fandom, so of course I chose to juggle five different versions of the same character...
> 
> I did do some research on certain topics in this.. I read a little about Vidocq and how his agents would go to bars and brothels to gather information and do their spying, which is totally different from the maintaining of order on the streets that the ordinary police would do. But as far as I can tell (with my limited knowledge), Hugo combined these duties for Javert, whose character is pretty much a symbol of the police anyway.
> 
> I also found that the average height for a French man born in 1810 (the earliest data my source had) was around 164 cm (5'4"), so yeah these 6'+ actors are going to tower over most 19th century people
> 
> I've found a few famous black individuals from the period, who mainly come from partly aristocratic backgrounds. One person I found out about recently is Thomas-Alexandre Dumas, who was one of Napoleon's generals (and also the father of Alexandre Dumas, the author of The Three Musketeers, who Victor Hugo knew). I took some inspiration for my descriptions of Lewis Javert from descriptions of Dumas Sr I found on Wikipedia.
> 
> I haven't been able to find much about Romani people in the early 19th century, but I do have reason to believe that there were essentially two main attitudes white people held towards them. One group saw them as 'noble savages' who needed to be preserved... The other thought that they needed to be 'reformed' which could be done through assimilating them into society... yeah. The second is the kind of person that I believe Javert would mainly encounter throughout his life, and since he does live among mainstream French society and has dedicated his life to the law, they would likely see someone like him as ascribing to their ideals. (He'd still have to deal with crap though, obviously)
> 
> And uh, I wasn't able to find much helpful information on voice-throwing other than "learn how to become a ventriloquist!!", but I learned that the 'throwing' of the voice is basically manipulation of pitch and volume to fool your brain into thinking that the voice is coming from far away. I'm not sure if it still 'works' if the listener is far away from the person performing it, which is what I suspect was inaccurate.
> 
> I went through the 3 versions of The Robbery/Attack on Rue Plumet and TAC and 2012 movie were the only ones where Patron-Minette showed up at all? So I figured only those versions would have heard of Claquesous
> 
> I have a tumblr @ http://cryingminervaas.tumblr.com


End file.
